Should Have Been
by Annalore
Summary: After the 11/19 Smackdown taping, Randy wonders. Punk/Orton, slash.


"Randy, you have all the talent in the world. All of it. You _should_ be a locker room leader. You _should_ be the face of the WWE. And it should have happened years ago. All you've ever done, Randy, is what's best for Randy Orton."

Big Show, Smackdown 11/22/2013

* * *

"Do you think it's true?" Randy says out of the blue. He's sprawled across the bed, an arm thrown back over his head, staring moodily at the ceiling.

You look at him from the armchair across the room where you've been reading, mostly to avoid the dark cloud surrounding him. You don't have to ask what he's talking about. You've seen it consume him all night. "You're asking me?" you say with a snort.

"Yeah. I'm asking you." He turns his head to look at you. He sounds like he's getting angry. You should probably mind it more.

"Yes, Randall. I think it's true. You've coasted and you've pissed away opportunities. You've been selfish when you should have been a leader. You gave John Cena everything that should have been yours."

He's up before you have time to process the motion, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at you. A lot of nicknames in wrestling are ridiculous, but he's earned every bit of his. His eyes are cold and reptilian in their anger. It sends chills down your spine. You wonder, for an instant, if he's going to attack you, but then he reigns himself in, grips the edge of the mattress as he takes deep, calming breaths.

"I loved him," he says softly, so softly you can barely hear him.

You put down your book and stand, cross the distance between you. "I know," you say as you run a hand over the back of his head. His skin prickly from the close shave he's been favoring lately. For a second, he presses his forehead to your abdomen, almost nuzzling you. Then he moves back, until he's lying on the bed again. You follow him, climb onto the bed and straddle him.

He closes his eyes as you kiss him. He's supporting himself by his elbows, his head tilted back as he opens his mouth to yours. You push him down until his shoulders touch the mattress. Your lips separate when you don't follow him down and he tries to lift his head to reach you, but you hold him down.

"Fuck, Punk," he groans, struggling against your grip. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to tell you the truth, Randy." At your tone, he looks up at you. You have him trapped. "They play politics. They use these storylines to hurt you. Maybe you're a fuck up. Maybe you gave away things you should have fought for. Or maybe you're a guy with a bad attitude who's worked hard all his life. Hell, maybe you've done everything right. Do you really think it matters? Do you think any of us are happy?"

Randy looks up at you silently for a long moment, and you wonder if you've offended him. You wonder if that's even possible. "You always say the worst things to me," he says finally.

You lean in to kiss him by way of apology. You feel bad, and you wonder where that little development came from. When you try to pull back, he pulls you in instead, holds you to his chest. "Thank you," he whispers in your ear. When he lets you go, you don't pull away immediately. The warmth of his chest is too inviting. You want to stay there, but you don't let yourself.

"You wanna go back to brooding?" you ask him.

"No," he says definitively, as if he considered it. "I want you to blow me."

You nod. This is familiar territory. "Maybe I should've just done it back at the arena, saved us the trouble."

He shakes his head at you, but you get a smile. Fuck, you love it when he smiles. It turns you inside out, makes you weak. Sometimes you think it's good that it doesn't happen that often, but you immediately quash the thought, because you wouldn't wish heartache on him.

Later, lying under the covers, not quite touching, because it makes him antsy, he leans in kisses the back of your neck. "You're not happy with me?" he asks, his nose still touching your skin.

That question. There's a world of uncertainty in that question. You want to say yes and you want to say no, because you're fucking miserable and you're falling in love and it makes you miserable, and the only way out is farther in. You have no answer, not one that he'd like.

"Are you happy with me?" you ask instead.

"Getting there," he answers. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulls you in. "I'm definitely getting there."

You turn over in his arms, let him hold you, because it's rare. You feel like you're being torn apart, and you wish you had some words for him, some way to tell him that no matter what you feel, you'd rather be here than anywhere else.

"Randy…" you start shakily, but words have failed you.

"Shhh," he whispers. "I know."

You let yourself believe that he does, that he understands the choices you've made and all the things in your heart that make this difficult. That he knows that even if neither of you are the people you should have been, you're trying to make yourself into something worthy of him.

* * *

**Note: **There might be a companion piece to this. I'm seeing how inspired I am.


End file.
